A Spiritual Experience in the Holy Trinity Cathedral
“God is real — I’m not kidding, God is actually real,” Cameron Winter declares at the climax of “$0”, the lead single from his debut album Heavy Metal. The lyric strikes a balance between revelation and breakdown. It’s delivered with full-bodied fervour within the Holy Trinity Cathedral. Then, Winter’s quivering baritone abandons rhyme scheme and reason, and a subdued piano ballad transforms into something strange, raw, and cathartic.
You might expect declarations of faith in a cathedral, but not quite like this. Holy Trinity is the “mother church” of Auckland’s Anglican Archdiocese, and an auspicious venue for the Geese frontman’s oceanic debut. Winter has a penchant for performing in places of worship around the world, and the cathedral’s stained-glass windows, neo-Gothic arches, and high timber ceilings provide an appropriately reverent backdrop. It’s atmospheric without being precious, sacred without feeling stiff.
The promise of a religious experience overseen by one Cameron Winter has drawn pilgrims from Sydney, California, and Singapore. (After all, love takes miles.) Tickets are re-selling for eye-watering prices, buoyed by the recent success of Geese’s fourth album Getting Killed. Fans who missed out circle the chapel in restless loops, hoping for a miracle pew to open.
When one teenager finally secures a ticket, the line erupts in whoops and cheers. It’s genuine excitement, sure — but the applause Winter receives when he sets foot on stage 40 minutes later, grandfather shirt and can of energy drink in hand, is rapturous.
This is one of the few times the 23-year-old New York native acknowledges the audience at all. When performing with Geese, Winter is expressive and wryly unserious. Alone at Holy Trinity, his piano faces away from the crowd for more than an hour.
The decision, while alienating to some, removes all distraction, forcing listeners to cling to every word of the unreleased opener ‘It All Fell In The River’. The minimalism feels refreshing — and respectful. Audience participation might animate a pop show, but it’s hard to imagine Winter hollering “where’s my Nina tonight?” in a house of God.
Alcohol is prohibited – communion wine included – and even though Winter oscillates between agnosticism and belief in real life, there’s a lingering sense that the Lord may actually be watching. The audience seems to understand this. Bawdy singalongs give way to silent devotion.
Even though Winter oscillates between agnosticism and belief in real life, there’s a lingering sense that the Lord may actually be watching.
Not that anyone could sing along, even in a secular venue with worse acoustics. Winter rearranges Heavy Metal tracks like ‘Love Takes Miles’ and ‘Drinking Age’, showcasing virtuosic improvisation skills and a live vocal performance that’s richer and more versatile than the album recordings suggest.
These versions barely resemble their studio counterparts – occasionally for the better – just as Winter’s real voice bears little resemblance to the Joey Morof-as-Hugh Jackman impressions fans have attempted online.
Though the self-styled $0 man is clearly cultivating his own mythology, the set is far from humourless. Even while playing the aloof, enigmatic genius, à la Bob Dylan, Winter pauses ‘The Rolling Stones’ to chug his energy drink. Later, he bangs his head against the piano, runs fanciful scales, and introduces a new song, ‘Ben’, which primarily consists of the word “Ben”.
These antics recall Mr Bean’s 2012 Olympic Opening Ceremony performance — unsurprisingly, coming as they do from a lyricist who muses about conga lines of chickens and ukulele beatings alongside the existence of God. They’re sweetly goofy, but not contemptuous, and it’s doubtful that any priest would be demoted for permitting the performance.
If anything disappoints, it’s the set list, which Winter takes with him when he leaves. Almost half of Heavy Metal is omitted, including fan favourite ‘Nausicaä (Love Will Be Revealed)’. The ominous encore, ‘Sandbag’, may have fared better in the main set.
Ending abruptly with a mumbled “thank you”, he undercuts the emotional intensity built by the preceding songs. Winter can make you laugh or cry with a single note, but this was an unusual choice to end on.
Still, this was the type of show you tell your future kids about. The congregation spills out of the cathedral, wiping away tears, comparing Winter’s song craft to Leonard Cohen’s, and claiming to have witnessed history. As one punter quips, responding to a recency-biased dismissal of the final stretch as ‘boring’, “The kid’s got it. I don’t know what it is, but he’s got it.”
Naysayers be damned. Cameron Winter might just make you a believer.
